Siavash Mostofi knew he was getting strange looks, but he didn’t care.
He was in a chai shop, on Special Street, in the direction of Qazvin. A table all to himself. The servers and manager had bowed and scraped when he arrived and had escorted him to the rear of the establishment. Tea had been brought even though he hadn’t ordered. They left the surrounding tables unoccupied even though the restaurant was busy.
The manager hadn’t recognized him, but had known he was senior enough in Quds, going by his uniform, and had given him the privacy.
The strange looks from other customers and passing servers because the commander kept mumbling to himself, shaking his head, all the while looking aimlessly in the distance or staring at the crisp table cloth. He smiled sometimes and stroked his beard.
Mostofi was in a state of shock.
He couldn’t help replaying what he had seen in Fereydoun Alley.
That woman, whom Habib knew as Parvin. The way she had leaped up and spun kicked one of his operatives. How her leg had stretched out, straight, like a gymnast’s. Such balletic grace and ability. He shook his head and mumbled again.
Then that man who had run past their vehicle. The last one, who had whirled on his heel to look back at them. ‘I think he’s the one in the restaurant!’ Habib had exclaimed. ‘The fat man who attacked us. He looks different, but he moves the same way.’ His aide had jumped out of the ride to give chase.
Mostofi shivered when he remembered the man’s eyes locking with his. For one split second it felt as if he had read Mostofi’s soul and known all his secrets.
The Quds leader hadn’t paid attention to his companions. He was dimly aware that they had spread out to back up the sisters and take on the Quds killers. That large man had rocketed over a car to take down an operative. He could hear Fathi’s instructions, relayed through the communications console in his vehicle. He didn’t pay attention to them, nor to the shooting.
Mostofi was fixated on the man who had turned to look at him and when he darted into a narrow opening, with Habib in pursuit, something came over Quds boss.
He fled.
He got out of his vehicle and ran down Special Street, shoving past people, ignoring their growls and curses. He kept moving until he came to the restaurant and occupied his table.
He kept talking to himself, laughing softly, humorlessly, with a thousand-yard stare, until the sun went down and the lights came up and evening turned to night.
Spatial awareness returned.
He became conscious of the pounding of his heart as if he had run a distance. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a paper towel, looked at himself in the reflection of a glass panel and grimaced. He looked a mess.
He went to the restroom and freshened up. When he returned to his seat, the Quds commander was back, but his pulse was still high and his fingers trembled.
He ordered another chai and snacks. Savored them slowly. Scrolled through the phone, at the innumerable missed calls from Habib and his frantic messages.
His aide would have tracked the location of his phone. Would have seen him in the restaurant, which meant he was keeping his distance. All his men knew his moods. No one approached him when he was in that state.
I am fine, he fired off a reply to Habib. Meet me in the office tomorrow.
He scrolled through a report from his aide. The women, that man, everyone had escaped. They had killed nine Quds operatives. Fathi was one of those dead.
Only nine, Mostofi smiled grimly. It could have been worse.
He wasn’t bothered by the death of his men. Not even by that of Fathi. In his line of work, people got killed.
As the food and drink settled in his belly, the Quds boss confronted why he had escaped from Fereydoun Alley.
I was scared, he acknowledged. A confession that he would make to no one.
Because it had come to him the moment that man whirled and looked at him. The way that woman had pivoted in the air. That big man. And that last man who Habib had said was the stocky attacker from the Grand Bazaar.
Mostofi knew who he was. He hadn’t ever met him, but that didn’t matter.
Zeb Carter. He shivered again as the name resonated in his mind.
That was him. Mostofi knew it without a shadow of doubt.
Spin kick woman was Meghan Petersen and the operative who had dived over the car was who they called Bwana.
They were in his country. In Tehran. Masquerading as Mossad operatives.
It was now obvious why Habib had failed to capture them. It was clear why that audacious attack on Shahriar Garrison had succeeded.
Carter. He clenched his fists bitterly. No one else could pull that off.
He had fled the scene the moment the realization had struck him. He knew at that moment, there was no way Fathi could capture those women.
Moreover, Carter had seen him.
And if Mostofi waited in that vehicle, the American would return.
Because he was in Tehran for a single mission.
To take down Siavash Mostofi.